Two Is Better Than One
by Winter Sapphire
Summary: Amelia Pond is seven-and-three-quarters, and she lives in a time machine. A series of short stories centered around the idea that the Doctor wasn't twelve plus two years late.
1. Only The Beginning

Title: Only The Beginning  
>Word Count: 545<br>Characters/Pairings: Eleven, young Amelia.  
>Summary: It's been seven months and fifteen days.<br>Warnings: **WARNING**: Eleventh Doctor with a CHILD! Adorability may ensue. But, no, in all seriousness, absolutely none, considering it goes AU from about 10-15 minutes into The Eleventh Hour.  
>Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC and Steven Moffat. I am just playing around.<br>A/N: The first of a series I'm writing for Doctor Who Land's Big Bang challenge. Expect more ficlets like these. :)

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><p><em>She's just a child.<em>

That's what his conscience chides at him as Amelia Pond laughs in her back yard, dashing around his wonderfully old, brilliantly new blue box-slash-time machine, her expression one he's seen before, so many times before, but never quite like this- never quite on somebody so young. The hope she had shown five minutes ago only seems amplified tenfold, twentyfold, a hundred, thousand times over as she sticks her head into the doors and then whirls around to look at him, her hands clasped behind her back, face oddly contorted as though she's trying to keep from smiling.

"I've decided to forgive you," she proclaims, completely serious, and the Doctor tries not to smile too, he really does, but it seems his mouth isn't quite connected to his brain yet. He grins.

"Forgive me for what?"

"You're late," Amelia Pond taps her wrist as though there's a watch. "You said five minutes, but it's been seven months!" She holds up seven fingers to help enunciate her point, raising her eyebrows at him. "Seven months and fifteen days!"

"Oh. Well, that explains why the air is much cooler than I remember it being," the Doctor muses, looking around. "Also why there aren't any leaves on the trees..." He smiles sheepishly. "Oops."

"Oops," Amelia Pond repeats with an agreeing nod and darts up to his side, grabbing his hand and looking up at him with an earnestness that only a child can produce. "But it's okay because your box is bigger on the inside so I forgive you. Though!" She tugs at his hand, and he takes a single stumbling step towards his TARDIS with her. "I still have to see it travel through time! Come _on_, can we go and see the pharaohs in Egypt? We're learning about them now in school and Aunt Sharon says Egypt is too far away to visit but I bet you can do it!"

It's like getting swept up in a whirlwind, sucked down into a whirlpool, being led into his own TARDIS by the young, the irrepressible Amelia Pond, who already has her pre-packed suitcase under the stairs, and who's already reaching for the buttons on the console.

(She can only reach the bottom half, but that doesn't seem to stop her.)

"Does this one do Egypt?" she asks, pulling down on the zigzag plotter as he shuts the doors behind him and he holds up a finger as he hops up the stairs and gently pries her hand off it.

"Ahhh... no. That does... it adjusts the equilibrium of the temporal-dimensional energy inside the TARDIS with the vortex turbulence outside of it. _Basically _it..." he trails off at her look. "... de-wibbilizes the... well... don't worry about what that does. How about I do the driving, hm? How does that sound?"

Amelia fixes him with an assessing gaze, one that he'll later come to realise as a staple of her character, folds her arms over her chest, and asks, as bluntly as she can, "You can get us to Egypt?"

"Oh, _Amelia_." The Doctor grins, and he pulls down a lever, flips a switch. "Egypt is only the beginning."

The TARDIS jolts hard to the left, and Amelia Pond laughs.


	2. The Nitty Gritty

Title: The Nitty-Gritty  
>Word Count: 630<br>Characters/Pairings: Eleven and 7-year-old Amelia  
>Summary: Amelia Pond is adamant, and she will not be swayed.<br>Warnings: Not a spoiler in sight. For the "New Year's" theme at **docwholand**  
>Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC and Steven Moffat. I am just playing around.<p>

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><p>The Doctor tries to convince her to pick somewhere else- <em>anywhere <em>else. There are plenty of places so much better suited to the two of them.

There's Romontry, for instance, a planet that has festivals of celebration for the entirety of the month that their moon can be seen in the sky before it disappears for another year. The food is good, the dancing and music is better, and, most importantly, the people don't shove and push just to get the best view.

Then there is Spearehead: a terraformed moon whose colonists celebrate their winter solstice by honouring the life and times of William Shakespeare- an entire _civilisation_ devoted to the speaking of his sonnets to putting on his plays, isn't that _amazing_? He'd want to go there, if he were her.

But no, Amelia Pond is adamant, and she will not be swayed: the ball drop in Times Square on New Year's Eve is what she wants to see. It was all Jeffrey Roth ever talked about after the winter holidays last year, she says, and it sounds _amazing_.

("It doesn't have anything on Spearehead," the Doctor mumbles dejectedly, but he's already putting in the coordinates when Amelia counters:

"But Jeffrey doesn't _know _about Spearehead! I can't tell him about something that he doesn't know about! Can't we just go to Spearehead tomorrow?"

"Two New Years in a row? Now, Pond, that would only serve to make it lose its poignancy.")

The streets are crowded. People are packed in like sardines who haven't been given enough room in their tiny tin box. The Doctor stands in the crowd with his hands around Amelia's ankles, her heels kicking against his chest as she grips his hair and leans against the top of his head, sighing in exasperation.

"Nothing's _happening_!"

"Plenty's happening!" The Doctor is jovial as he shifts her on his shoulders, grinning at the people huddled together in groups around them in attempts to stay warm. "There are people all around us! It's packed! This is the night of December 31st, 1999- the biggest New Year's Eve before the human race starts its adventures and misadventures out to the stars! There won't ever be another New Year's in the Big Apple quite like this one."

Amelia tugs her hat down over her eyes and sighs again, louder than before. "It's _boring_. I thought New York had parties all the time? All the people here are doing here is standing and waiting!" The Doctor chuckles lightly, twisting his head to look up at her.

"I hate to tell you this, Pond, but the parties really aren't in Times Square." He can see her eyes bulge from the corner of his eye.

"Then where are they?"

"Manhattan, Brooklyn, in bars and pubs and clubs- Times Square is like the face behind the celebration. Everybody knows it, but the real nitty-gritty bits happens on the other parts of the body." Amelia giggles and digs her heels into the Doctor's chest, and he frowns, thinking that over. "That analogy didn't come out the way I'd intended."

"Can we go to the nitty-gritty parts of the body, Doctor?"

"Shut up."

"Because the face is boring."

"Pond."

"And the other parts sound much more exciting."

"_Amelia_. Blimey, just _what _do they teach kids at school in 1996?"

"Jeffrey-"

"Roth," he finishes for her, spinning around on his feet and pushes his way back through the crowd. "Yes, I should have figured. Come on, we're going."

"What?" Amelia clutches at his head and kicks his chest again. "Why? The ball hasn't dropped!"

"And it won't for two and a half more hours yet. You're cold and you're bored and you'll see..." The Doctor grins up at her, gives her a wink. "Spearehead is amazing."


	3. Toast And Jam

Title: Toast And Jam  
>Word Count: 724<br>Characters/Pairings: Eleven and 7-year-old Amelia  
>Summary: The Doctor is sick.<br>Warnings: Not a spoiler in sight. For the "Hurt/comfort" theme at docwholand  
>Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC and Steven Moffat. I am just playing around.<br>A/N: I want to thank everybody who's reviewed/favourited/alerted/read this story so far! I'm having a lot of fun making scenes with these two and I'm glad you're all enjoying it. :) I hope you enjoy this and future stories just as much!

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><p>In all of her time on the TARDIS, Amelia Pond has never seen the Doctor sleep. It's one of the things she's noticed about him over the last couple of months, and so when she stumbles down from her room after a good night's rest to find him all but passed out on the swing below the console, she knows something's wrong. She starts towards him slowly.<p>

"Doctor...?" He doesn't respond, and Amelia stumbles a little as she picks up her pace and raises her voice. "Doctor, are you all right?"

"Mm?" He shifts slightly, stirring as she draws near, blinking drowsily at her. "Ah, Pond- sorry. Bit... nodded off... just for a moment... mmhhr..." He shimmies himself into a more upright position and rubs at his forehead. "You want to do something? 'Course you do, you're Amelia Pond, you always want to do something, you're adventurous like that. I-"

It's not until he stands up that he wobbles a little and trips over his own feet. That's normal, Amelia thinks, almost believes, but then he doesn't even bother to flail his arms out in an attempt to catch himself when he falls. He just lands with an ungraceful _thump _and a groan, and she rushes the rest of the way to his side.

"Doctor! What happened? Are you sick? Are you _dying_? You told me you're actually really old, and when people get really old they just fall over and die, that's what Rory said, you're not falling over and dying are you?" The Doctor rasps out a laugh and shakes his head lightly, rolling it to the side to look at her before shakily sitting up.

"Shh, calm down. I'm not dying, Amelia."

Amelia sniffs in a way that seems to help her both compose herself and put on an indignant air. "Then why're you acting so funny?"

"Think I had a bit of bad beef." He holds up an arm to his mouth and coughs against it. "... figuratively speaking. I hope. Just feeling a bit..." He grunts as he pushes himself up, wibbly but standing. "...indisposed. Green around the gills. Help me to my room, will you?"

("You have a room?"

"Of course I have a room."

"With an _actual _bed?"

"_Yes_, with an actual bed. Why is this so surprising?")

It's a few hours later when Amelia checks on him again- he _did _have a room, much to her surprise, and she had helped him into his very real, very soft-looking bed (she had even taken his boots off for him!) before leaving him to rest. He had wanted to be alone, but there's only so long Amelia Pond can do that for, and his time is up.

She sneaks into his room, the door creaking in that faint way, like the doors in old, comfortable homes, or in haunted mansions filled with ghosts. The tray in her hands tilts a little with the uneven weight and she straightens it out, stumbling through the darkness until she's beside the lump she knows is him.

"I don't remember much about my parents," she starts, quietly, awkwardly, "but I remember that when... when I had a mum... if I got sick... she'd tuck me into my bed nice and tight, smooth my hair back and kiss my forehead. And she'd make me toast and soup. I know you're asleep now, and I'm not your mum, but... I made you some. I remembered you don't like bread and butter so I hope toast and jam is alright."

She sets the tray on the table beside the bed, balanced precariously on the little bit of room he has on the edge, and watches him for a moment. He's quiet and still and wholly unmoving, and it scares her, scares her so much that when she curls up in the easy chair in the corner of the room, Amelia Pond hopes she never, _ever_has to see him look so helpless and weak again.

She doesn't even realise she's drifted off, but when she wakes again she finds herself tucked into the comfort of his bed, and the Doctor's long gone. The only thing that suggests he was even there at all is the tray still left on the bedside table, empty save for crumbs and a note:

_All better. Thanks, Mum.  
>The Doctor <em>


	4. The Art Of Explodey Wodey

Title: The Art of Explodey-Wodey  
>Word Count: 725<br>Characters/Pairings: Eleven and 7-year-old Amelia  
>Summary: Never argue with inanimate objects.<br>Warnings: Slight references to The Lodger. For the "Argument" theme at docwholand  
>Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC and Steven Moffat. I am just playing around.<p>

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><p>Craig Owens has always been a 'go with the flow' kind of guy, so long as that flow is kept solely to Colchester, his job, football and Sophie. He likes his life. He likes the normalcy of it, the repetition of it, the <em>solidity <em>of it. His life makes sense. It's in order, it's not chaotic, and the most disrupting thing that happens is when Sophie's more feminine friends phone in their so-called emergencies.

When he had put up his ad in the shop window he'd been expecting the slightly off-kilter prospective or two. He'd also been willing to let go of some of his safety nets if he had somebody to help pay the rent.

But he hadn't been expecting the Doctor, he certainly hadn't been expecting Amelia Pond, and he definitely hadn't expected his life is slowly begin to spiral out of his control.

Craig knows something is wrong when it's Amelia who greets him as he walks through the front door. He's used to the Doctor's exuberant greetings, his air kisses and his beaming face, but Amelia's always been the one to stay a bit back (he doesn't think she likes him very much).

Craig knows what this is the instant he sees her blocking the door: this... this is a peace offering.

"Craig-" Amelia starts, and he groans, hitting his forehead with his keys.

"Oh, lord, what's he done now?"

Craig moves past her and into the flat, coming to a standstill as he sees the Doctor's silhouette through the smoke trapped in his kitchen, Amelia hot on his heels.

"I'm sorry, Doctor, I tried to stall him, but he knew something was wrong!"

He sees the Doctor's hands first, popping out through the thick gray film like they pop out of graves in zombie flicks, and he almost seems to grip the smoke and move it aside like a tangible, solid object, coughing slightly and waving some excess out of his face.

"Ahhh... Craig! Hello!" He claps his hands together and rubs them in a mixture of excitement and nervousness, grinning from ear to ear. "How was your day?"

Craig is too baffled to respond at first. The walls are black. The stove's destroyed. The side of his fridge is scorched.

"What- You, you... you _blew up my kitchen_!"

"I can explain," the Doctor starts, but Craig is clearly not in a listening mood as he shoves past him and forces his way through the smoke, eyes stinging.

"You _blew up_ my _kitchen_! I don't think it gets much clearer than that!"

"Actually, your stove self-destructed. We had a bit of a disagreement-"

"He argued with it for thirty minutes when it refused to go beyond the highest temperature," Amelia interjects, but the Doctor carries right on like she hasn't even spoken.

"-and it decided that it had finally hit its rebellious teenage years and _BOOOOM_!" The Doctor mimes it, spreading his arms wide. "Temper tantrum the size of Antarctica! Blimey, even _she's_," he jerks his thumb towards Amelia, "not that scary when angry. And she's been angry at me quite a lot, let me tell you."

"At least _I _don't have rows with inanimate objects!" she counters, frowning and crossing her arms with a bit of a huff.

"The stove wasn't _inanimate_, it was clearly fighting with me!"

"_You_ were fighting with _it_, and it won!"

"You wanted to make the brownies!"

"You tried to do force it to bake them in point-four-five-three-nine-"

"Point-four-five-three-_seven_."

"-point-four-five-three-seven seconds by trying to turn up the heat to levels it couldn't reach! And you _ruined _them!"

The Doctor scowls and crosses his arms, and for a moment Craig wonders who the actual adult in this relationship is. "I could have made it work."

"Okay, okay," Craig massages his temples and throws out his arms. "Stop. Fine. Whatever. Just... I'll go out, or something, and when I get back have this place _cleaned up_, or at least have the smoke out of the flat and... just do _something_."

He eyes the room upstairs before leaving the flat, the lights flashing, the floor creaking, before he shakes his head and heads out and down the footpath, pulling out his mobile.

"Hey, Soph? Yeah, so, a night in won't really work..."


	5. Frank Conversations

Title: Frank Conversations  
>Word Count: 643<br>Characters/Pairings: Eleven and 7-year-old Amelia, River Song  
>Summary: Leave it to Amelia Pond to make a role model out of the one woman that she definitely shouldn't trust.<br>Warnings: Slight references to The Time Of Angels, and indirect references to A Good Man Goes To War (though if you haven't seen it, I doubt you'll pick up on just what it is). For the "Trust" theme at **docwholand**.  
>Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC and Steven Moffat. I am just playing around.<p>

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><p><em>He's doomed.<em>

That's the initial thing that crosses the Doctor's mind when he first sees how Amelia follows along right on River's heels like a lost duckling. _He's doomed_, then _why do the girls always stick together_, then _he's lost her forever_. What's most prevalent above all of that, though, is _she's not safe_.

The Doctor crosses his arms and puts on his best Grumpy Face as he watches them, tapping his fingers against the rough fabric of his tweed and blowing air up into his fringe, only to have it flop right back down. Leave it to Amelia Pond to make a role model out of the one woman that she definitely shouldn't trust. Typical.

The Doctor scowls and taps a few useless commands onto the church-distributed scan-reader that the Clerics had given him to use, scrolling through the information they'd already recorded about the weeping angels, swiping away a fallacy here, a misconception there, what the _hell_ were they thinking when they put that on the list, and that- that is most _definitely _false, and-

"Interesting read, sweetie?"

The Doctor purses his lips a little and narrows his eyes, but doesn't react any more than that as River comes up beside him. He continues flicking across the screen. "Absurd, really. Your people really did their research. Horribly."

River laughs, and he thinks she _really_shouldn't- in some situations, making a mistake can cost people a demerit. In this one it could cost people their lives.

"They're not my _people_. Doctor-"

"Where's Amelia?"

"She's with the Clerics, she's _fine_-"

"No," the Doctor is quiet as he pulls his head up finally and turns his gaze to her, expression fierce. "No, she's not fine, because _you've_-" he pokes her shoulder so hard she leans back a little, "-_you've_ pulled me, and consequentially _her_, into a situation involving one of the most dangerous species in the universe. She is in more danger now than she's ever been in her entire life and we haven't even encountered this angel yet. So _no_, River, she is not _fine_, and until this thing is neutralised or we leave, she _will not _be fine." He pauses, letting it sink in. "Do you understand me?"

Her face is stoic, no hint of teasing or flirting, no _sweeties_ or _spoilers_, just River Song. It's possibly the most candid he's ever seen her, and (troublingly) the most open.

"I understand."

The Doctor turns his attention back to the scan-reader.

"Good, because if she-"

"And you understand me, Doctor." River grips his arm, gently but firmly enough to force his attention back to her, "You understand me when I say that I would never let anything happen to Amelia Pond."

The Doctor keeps his gaze level with his, jaw tight in contemplation before he gives her a curt nod, and he feels her grip slacken though she doesn't let go.

"Are you two going to kiss?"

The Doctor whirls around and gazes down at Amelia, dumbstruck at her sudden appearance, mouth hanging open as she peers back up between them with a bemused expression, eyebrow raised.

"'Cause, you know, if you are, you're not doing it right. Even _I _know that."

The Doctor sputters and he pulls his arm away almost guiltily, straightening his bow tie and dusting off his jacket.

"What? No- _no_! Of course not. Don't be ridiculous."

Amelia turns her grin to River, rocking back onto her heels, reaching to grab her hand. "He's blushing." River laughs again, and the Doctor can hear an air of familiarity in it this time as she lets the headstrong child begin to drag her back towards the Clerics.

"Yes, he is."

"Does he do that often?"

River looks back over her shoulder at him, and she winks.

"Spoilers."

Yes, the Doctor thinks to himself, he is most certainly, definitely doomed.


	6. Fearless

Title: Fearless  
>Word Count: 710<br>Characters/Pairings: Eleven and 7-year-old Amelia  
>Summary: He has no idea whatsoever of what to do about this.<br>Warnings: Not a thing. :)  
>Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC and Steven Moffat. I am just playing around.<p>

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><p>The Doctor thinks he can handle pretty much anything the universe throws his way. He's overcome great odds before, sometimes at even greater consequences, and while it may not have always been fair he <em>has <em>usually figured out how to handle it. He knows how to deal with things.

He has no idea whatsoever of what to do about this.

The scene: his bedroom, on one of those rare days when there was just a bit too much running and a short kip in a warm bed seems like a welcome idea instead of a chore. The time: some obscure hour in a temporally disconnected time machine, but also an hour in which certain seven-year-old gingers are usually asleep. The person: a certain Amelia Pond, hair tousled and expression tight as she stands in the open doorway to his room, though the Doctor's sure he locked the door when he came in (the TARDIS, he concludes, is a sentimental old thing).

The problem? Red-rimmed eyes failing to conceal the hint of barely-suppressed tears, a nervous wringing of the fabric of her nightie, and the lack of simply barging in headfirst.

(Also, he's in his footie pajamas. He had been trying to keep them a secret.)

The Doctor straightens up against the headboard, running his hands over his face and through his hair as he looks at her, setting his book aside and plucking his reading glasses off of his nose.

"Amelia," he starts, holding up a finger and opening and closing his mouth in rapid succession, not quite sure what to say, where to start. "... you're awake."

"Yeah," Amelia agrees, and the Doctor expects her to say something more, anything more, anything to clue him in to what could _possibly _be wrong, but she stands resolute- and really he shouldn't be surprised. She's always been the self-sufficient type, this girl, and he imagines it must've taken a lot of forcing-down of pride for her to be standing where she is now.

"_Why _are you still awake?" he tries again, and she shuffles in her spot, gazing around at the numerous knick-knacks strewn over the shelves on his walls in a vain effort to evade answering the question.

"It's nothing," Amelia murmurs, just a little unconvincingly, before she finally looks at him. "They're not coming back, are they?"

Oh. Oh. The Doctor's gaze softens, and he gestures for her with a hand. "Come here, Pond."

That does it. The dam breaks, the gates give way and Amelia Pond races to his bed, clambering up onto it without a second thought and sidling up to his side, knees curling up to her chest, arms wrapping securely around them.

"You had a nightmare." The Doctor nudges his shoulder against hers. "About the angels?"

"No," Amelia says instantly, spitting it out as though she's offended by the very idea.

"No," he repeats with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Of course not, what a ridiculous notion. Amelia Pond, not scared of anything... I'd nearly forgotten..." The Doctor tapers off and watches her from the corner of his eye, taking in the quiet, small form of one of the bravest human beings he's ever met, and he can't help but wonder what somebody like her could ever be truly terrified of. "Did you want to talk about it?"

"No thanks." Amelia tilts her head up towards him and offers him a ghost of a smile. "Can I just stay in here tonight?"

"Mmm..." He pretends to contemplate it, just for a second, before pulling the covers up over them both, letting them settle over them like a fort. "So long as you aren't a blanket hog, I suppose I don't see why not."

"Oh, come on." Amelia scoffs and slugs him in the arm. "I bet _you're _the blanket hog."

"Shut up." The Doctor flicks her nose as he closes his eyes and settles back down onto the bed. "I am not."

"When's the last time _you _had to share covers?" He must make a face at that because he hears Amelia giggle in response. "Yeah, I thought so. Good night, Doctor."

The TARDIS hums low in the background, comforting, soothing, and the Doctor smiles.

"Nighty-night, Pond."


	7. Flight And Fancy Free

Title: Flight And Fancy Free  
>Word Count: 700<br>Characters/Pairings: Eleven and 7-year-old Amelia  
>Summary: It doesn't look at all like a camel.<br>Warnings: Nada.  
>Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC and Steven Moffat. I am just playing around.<br>A/N: SOOOO sorry it's been so long! This has been sitting in my notepad for about a month, unfinished. I just got caught up in school and work and then I was at the beach and agh! I'm back now, and hopefully more regularly!

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><p><em>'It's perfectly safe,'<em> he had assured her, _'like riding a pony. Or a camel. A flying camel, even. Imagine that, Amelia, a flying camel!'_

Except, well, it doesn't look at all like a camel, more like a giant floating manta ray, and he hadn't told her about the rows of sharp, jagged teeth sticking out at jaunty angles. There were the beady yellow eyes too, following her every movement, blinking in irregular patterns like flashing Christmas lights.

(Amelia wasn't so sure if she liked Christmas lights anymore.)

"Er," she starts, watching as the Doctor strokes along the scaly, ridged underbelly of the great beast towering over them and wondering how in the world he isn't being gobbled up as a mid-afternoon snack. "Er, Doctor, it's... it's staring at me."

The Doctor looks back at her, eyebrows raised as he clasps his hands together. "Well, of course she is, you're staring at her!" His eyes light up in bemusement and he bends down to tap her nose. "Thinks it rather rude, if you ask me."

Even Amelia has the dignity to blush as she lowers her gaze to the ground, kicking her foot through the fine purple blades of grass.

"Sorry, it's just, er, I mean _she's _just so very..." she kicks the grass again and throws her hand out to to illustrate whatever word she was trying to say, and the Doctor smiles slightly to himself as he recognises the movement as one of his own.

"Large?" he supplies, but Amelia shakes her head and blurts:

"_Toothy_."

"Ah." The Doctor laughs, reaching up to grip on of the jagged looking black bones bulging out from the creature's spine and hoisting himself up onto her back. "Kite-winged harbadons are harmless, Pond. Well, unless you're a fish. They're piscivores. You aren't secretly a mermaid, are you? Ariel Pond, maybe?"

"I have got the hair for it," Amelia concedes, smiling a little and taking a bold step forward. When the harbadon's eyes follow her this time she doesn't feel quite as intimidated by it.

"You're also much more feisty," the Doctor chuckles, reaching a hand out, and Amelia latches onto it with both of hers before being hauled straight up onto its back in front of him.

"So, what, we're going to fly on it?"

"Naaah. Who does flying? Flying's dull. The two of us, Amelia Pond, are going to _glide_."

And with that the Doctor gives the harbadon a brief pat on the side, and Amelia grips onto the spike in front of her as the massive creature shudders and bends beneath them, the wind beginning to pick up around them as though the beast itself was conjuring it. She can feel the Doctor's arm tighten around her waist as he grips onto the spike protruding up behind him.

"Hang on tight, Pond!" is his only warning before they're suddenly lifting up hundreds of feet into the air, low-hanging clouds of deep purple blocking their vision (and drenching them thoroughly with water) until they reach the skies above them, when the harbadon's wings flattening out beside her and the sudden turbulence fades into a gentle wind fluttering around them. The Doctor's grip loosens its death hold almost instantly, and he lets out a dramatic breath.

"Phew! For a moment there I thought she was going to buck us off! That's my girl." He pats the side of the harbadon again, and the creature dips one of her wings into the clouds hanging just under them, letting out a chirrup that sounds so much like the small birds Amelia used to feed bread crumbs with her aunt in the park that it surprises her.

Despite the Doctor's insistence that they wouldn't be flying, the wind whips Amelia's hair to and fro around her head, and she starts to laugh. She can practically hear the Doctor's grin in his voice as he asks, voice raised as to not be swallowed by the air, "Absolutely extraordinary, isn't it? Riding the winds on the top of the world! What did I tell you?"

Amelia can only laugh again, because the Doctor is ridiculous and amazing, and, "This is _nothing_ like riding a camel!_"_


End file.
